


The Harrowing

by Savageandwise



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Ghosts, Haunted House, Horror, M/M, McLennon, Supernatural - Freeform, The Dakota, Work of fiction, not my take on reality, not realistic stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 20:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16542089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: "The thing about ghosts was they had a tendency to show up when something else was at work in your mind. When you were high or drunk or miserable. When you were desperate or guilty or full of longing. Ghosts were real, John was sure of it. But he wasn’t entirely sure he'd ever seen a real one."January 1980. Paul McCartney is busted for carrying marijuana into Japan. John Lennon tells people he's a happy house husband. He's given up music and his days are spent caring for his young son, Sean. But is it anxiety and loneliness that causes him to hear and see things that can't possibly be there? Is it his longing for a lost love? Or is The Dakota truly haunted?





	The Harrowing

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to write this in time for Halloween but it sort of got away from me. 
> 
> This story was mostly inspired by Twinka who said she bets I could write a scary story. This is my first ever attempt. So... comment and be gentle. It's certainly harder than I thought it would be!
> 
> Let me know if i should continue because to be honest. This is as far as I planned. After this there are dragons. Not even sure it's worth continuing!!!

The Dakota stood overlooking Central Park, a great sprawling mess of a building replete with terracotta spandrels, balustrades and balconies. John wasn't entirely sure what those were, save the balconies but they were highly desirable he was sure. They called it the Dakota because when it was built around 1884 it was so far out of the swing of things it might as well have been situated in the Dakota Territories. By the time John moved in with Yoko in 1973 it was home to aging actors and bohemian types. They brought spice to the joint. They bought apartment seventy-two (7+2=9) on the seventh floor from Robert Ryan, an actor whose wife had recently died of cancer in that very apartment. 

“Maybe she's still here,” was Yoko’s comment when they collected the key and were making notes for the builders to come in and knock down walls.

“Maybe,” John had replied vaguely.

Yoko had a keen interest in the occult. She'd hired a medium to contact Mrs. Jessica Ryan before they began the process of remodeling. Mrs. Ryan assured them she had no intention of leaving her home. 

“But she won't harm us. We'll coexist,” Yoko had said, stroking his arm reassuringly.

She'd insisted on calling the daughter and telling her they'd made contact with her mother's spirit. The daughter hadn't been particularly impressed. John couldn't blame her really. He wasn't entirely sure he believed the medium either. As a rule John was both a believer and a cynic.

John liked to say he'd seen ghosts before. Julia, pale and lovely at the reception after he'd married Cyn. He'd seen Stuart's slight figure at the foot of the bed he'd shared with Paul in Paris on his twenty-first birthday. Stu had still been alive at the time. He knew now it had been an apparition from the future. That grey face, that cool assessing gaze. The thing about ghosts was they had a tendency to show up when something else was at work in your mind. When you were high or drunk or miserable. When you were desperate or guilty or full of longing. Ghosts were real, John was sure of it. But he wasn’t entirely sure he'd ever seen a real one.

John remembered the first moment he walked into the Dakota through that darkened entrance way on 72nd Street (7+2=9!), past the uniformed guard standing like a sentry at Buckingham Palace, past the iron gate with its black curlicues. He'd felt like this was his final destination. He was home at last. He'd never know another. He'd shivered, grasped the edge of Yoko’s fur-lined cuff. 

“What's wrong, John?” she'd asked.

“Someone just walked over me grave.”

She'd taken that for a good omen. 

When he left the Dakota to embark upon his separation from Yoko it had felt like going on tour. No other place had seemed right. His head hadn't been right. He’d had a sharp pain in his left shoulder that didn't seem to go away no matter how many times the area was massaged. He'd been stuck on a boat without an oar, a slave to winds and water. Yoko had finally called him after eighteen months on some silly errand and he went back to the Dakota to see her, back through that iron gate. He’d known he was back for good. He’d stopped running, stopped worrying. It wasn't just Yoko. It was this place. It was home. Then Sean was born and John knew this is what he'd been waiting for. This little person who was half him and half Yoko. He was worth giving everything up for. He was worth packing in that old life. 

He was finally happy. He was. All was well in his world.

* * *

Fred told him Paul had been busted in Japan carrying half a pound of marijuana in his suitcase. Well, of course that was terrible. Of course they only targeted him because he was famous. John spent ages listening to Charlie read the cards. He was sleeping too much again and sneaking out to eat garbage. He was leaving Sean with his nanny, forgetting to kiss him goodnight. He kept waking up in the middle of the night for no reason and reaching out for someone who wasn't there. Yoko slept in another room, awake half the night on overseas telephone calls.

“I'm fine,” he told Yoko when she voiced her concern. “It's just this thing with Paul. You know he brings out the worst in me.”

Yoko nodded, turned her eyes on John. She was listening now, she liked it when he bad-mouthed Paul. She thought there was no harm asking Charlie to do an extra reading and getting the medium to come in and bless the flat. John let her, it kept her placid, kept her from asking him how he really felt about Paul. He went to bed feeling like it might have helped and drifted straight into a dreamless sleep.

John woke to a strange rhythmic thumping. The rough, muted sound of bass strings. Fast, fast, fast, fast. And then nothing. He sat up, turned on the light and reached for his glasses. Faster, higher. His heartbeat sped up to match it. Descending, descending, descending. Stop! The lurch of his heart plummeting to his stomach. Breathless, John flicked his eyes at the radio alarm clock by his bedside: 8.01 PM. Impossible. He'd fallen asleep long past nine. Past midnight. The clock was clearly broken, perhaps the batteries were failing. There it was again. That thumping. That incessant thumping. Descending, descending. “Helter Skelter”! That's what it was! The bass line. Crude and punishing. John swung his feet to the floor, cursing a little at the chill and flung open the door. The apartment was as dark as it ever got in New York City, the floor streaked with light from the window. He could hear the faintest sound from the street, the rush of the wind in the trees in Central Park but no music, certainly no bass. 

John got a drink of water and an aspirin and got back into bed. When he shut his eyes he could hear it again, softer this time but undeniable. He clapped his hands over his ears but nothing seemed to drown it out. The rhythm had gotten under his skin.

The next morning exhausted and blurry-eyed he asked Uda-san, the cook, about it. She gazed at him, her eyes flat and black, her mouth thin, a child's crayon smear. She shook her head. 

“No music. You dream it.” 

John felt a stab of anger behind his eyes. He hadn’t dreamed it. Why would he? All day long he couldn't get that fucking bassline out of his head. The next night the same story, John woke up in the middle of the night with that infernal bass thumping in his ears. That ridiculous song of Paul's, the one Manson hijacked when he killed Polanski's wife. Tell me, tell me, tell me, come on tell me the answer…

The clock read 8:01 PM even though he'd changed the batteries and reset the clock. John put on his dressing gown and slippers, opened the apartment door and stepped out into the hall. It seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. 

“My baby is trying to sleep!” John called out angrily. 

Someone—a woman—was crying, sobbing, uncontrollably. John saw a figure in red just turning the corner to the stairwell.

“Stop!” he called out. “Do you hear that? Are you…has something happened? ”

But the figure didn't answer, didn't turn around. It was cold in the hall, John felt his scrotum tighten, his skin crawl. His heart was beating so fast he couldn't catch his breath and he didn't know why. It was like his body was terrified but had yet to relay the message to his brain. Back inside the apartment, John went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of vodka from Yoko’s secret stash. And then he poured himself another. His heart was still shuddering in his breast to the horrible rhythm of “Helter Skelter”. He looked up at the darkened window, Uda had forgotten to water the plants. The copious tangle of green foliage looked parched and grey. John stood, filled a glass with water and tipped it into the pot causing it to sway from the hook it hung from. Between the dry vines he spied a flash of red reflected in the windowpane. The sound of sobbing, low and despondent echoed through the room. Startled, John dropped the glass of water and it struck the windowsill and shattered on the terracotta tiles.

Cursing, he knelt, grasped the shards gingerly and tossed them into the bin. Blood seeped between his fingers but John couldn't feel the pain. This time he was certain he'd seen a real ghost. Perhaps the perished Mrs. Ryan? She wouldn't harm him. The medium had assured them. All the same he couldn't get to sleep without a handful of pills and another drink.

The papers were full of speculation about Paul's imprisonment. Yoko tried to hide them from him but he made Fred go out and buy them secretly.

“Don't you think you'd feel better if you called his wife at least?” Charlie Swan asked when he tried to give him some version of the past few nights. He thought it was John's anxiety for Paul's wellbeing manifesting itself in night terrors.

John didn't think it would be better if he called her. He didn't know what he'd even say to Linda, didn't know how he'd hide it from Yoko. John assured Charlie he didn't really care about Paul, it was just the sensationalism making him follow the story.

“Doesn't seem like that to me,” Charlie muttered.

Then nine days in (the number nine, the number nine, the number nine), the word came they'd let Paul go, they were shipping him back to England. They'd let him off easy. Because he was Paul. Touching shit and turning it to gold. 

“Figures,” John said to Yoko. “Figures Paul wouldn't have to face the consequences.” As if he hadn't spent hours worrying about the man. As if he hadn't driven himself half mad thinking about him.

Relief tore through John like a wave of nausea. It was over now. Things were back to normal. The phantom bass that had plagued him was silent at last.

John woke suddenly because he knew someone was in the room with him. He just knew. The way you can feel someone's eyes on you even if your head is turned away. He remembered that feeling from his Beatle days. His skin prickling with the attention. When he'd finally turned he'd seen Paul looking at him, his secretive little smile. 

“Stop staring. They'll notice.”

“Notice what?”

“They'll know.”

“You stop then. You're the one always looking at me.”

John sat up in bed. 8:01 PM. (8+1=9) Fucking clock. Someone was in the room, staring at him. The cats were by the foot of the bed, bristling with fear. He could see Charo’s eyes pale yellow in the gloom. Down on the floor, someone hissed low and fierce. 

“Yoko? Sean, sweetheart? You're scaring the cats.”

No answer. By the door was a grey smudge of a figure. Misha and Sasha darted under the bed. He could smell the stink of their terror.

“Sean? It's not a joke!” John called.

He could see the man's skin, pale as paper, his dark mop of hair. The dim light reflected off his shiny black boots. John's throat was dry, it hurt to swallow. He tried to get up, tried to reach for the lamp but he was frozen in place.

“How did you get in here?” he whispered hoarsely. “Who are you?” 

No answer. The figure lifted his arm and pointed straight ahead like the Ghost of Christmas Future. John scrambled for his glasses, desperate to see the man clearly but it was too dark to see his face.

In a voice so small it was almost inaudible John murmured: “Paul? Paulie?”

Then the muffled twang of the muted strings. Thumping, thumping, faster and faster. “Helter Skelter”. John had once painted those words on the wall outside his ground floor studio before Yoko ordered them covered up with a triple layer of powder blue paint and a child's cartoon of fluffy white marshmallow clouds. Helter Skelter! John screwed his eyes shut, covered his ears, shuddering and rocking back and forth. Descending, descending. Stop!

“John,” Yoko said. Her hands were on his shoulders. She was wrapped in a cream-coloured robe, her hair pulled back into a neat plait. “You're dreaming.”

“I'm not. I saw…I saw a man. In a grey suit.” He pointed at the door. “Right there! He was right there. Staring at me. Waiting for me.” 

Yoko had switched the light on, he could see the wall, a painting that hung there, the door with it's ornate frame. The three cats filed out of the room, their bellies close to the floor. 

“There's no one here, darling. Just you and me. Do you think it was…could it have been a spirit?” she asked gently.

Yes. Yes. There was no other explanation.

“Or…how long since you've had a flashback?” She ran her palm down his back soothingly.

“I know what a flashback feels like,” John snapped. “That's not what this was.”

“So alright, John. What do you want me to do about it?” Yoko said tiredly. “Call the Oracle?”

“Do you think he can help? Call Lena. Maybe I need some treatment. Maybe…maybe someone's cursed me?” He struggled to breathe, his words coming out thin and strangled, bitten off. 

He looked down at his trembling hands. Yoko slipped her small hand into one of his. Her fingers were cold, white. When he looked again they were brittle, bleached bone. He jerked his hand away, cried out in alarm.

Yoko pushed him back down against the pillows impatiently. “Try to rest, love. I'll fix everything. I'll get you some tea,” her voice was pointedly calm. 

“Sell me soul for a dose,” John whispered hopefully.

He could see alarm spark in Yoko’s eyes. She was so pale, the dark hollows of her face so pronounced it looked like a death mask.

“That's all done with, John.”

He nodded once, drew a shaky breath. 

“I could kill Paul, upsetting you like this. I could kill him,” She said fiercely. It reminded him with a start why he loved her.

John let her fetch his tea and lie down beside him. He was still agitated, his pulse rapid, his thoughts scattered. He could still see the negative space by the door where the figure had stood. Had it been Paul? That fearful figure in grey with his polished boots and outstretched hand. His obscured face. Was this some premonition of what was to come?

As he drifted off he thought: that's what I need. A touch of his poison. Just a dose to calm my nerves. He couldn't play a record with Yoko in bed beside him so instead he imagined Paul's voice, clear as a bell, deceptively pure. He imagined it until it rang out in his mind, louder than his fearful thoughts. (Oh, yesterday came suddenly.) 

He called Paul the very next day, not even waiting till he'd had his first cup of coffee and his morning cigarette. His stomach was churning. John decided that when Paul answered, he would make his voice sound cool, almost angry. He imagined Paul's response: aggressively cheery, that puppy dog enthusiasm and devotion. When did that change? When did Paul become who he was now? No nonsense, thin-lipped and joyless. He recalled being stoned out of his mind, sliding his hands over miles and miles of Paul's skin while he did the same to John.

“You go on forever,” Paul had said. “I could do this forever and never know every inch of you.” 

“Then keep going.” 

When did he stop? Why?

Linda answered the phone, her fake cut-glass English accent still in place. Hesitating for a moment, John hung up firmly and then sat there twitching anxiously. He called again an hour later and hung up again and then he repeated the whole procedure another couple of times. Finally he had Fred call and leave a message. He told Fred to let him know at once if Paul called back. 

Too anxious to stay at home and wait, John donned a disguise and went out to walk in the park. It was one of those warm late winter mornings, a faint promise of spring lingered on the wind. He sucked the air in hungrily, coughed a couple of times as his lungs protested. He could smell the leaves rotting beneath the sheet of ice that still covered the earth. The park was sleeping, resting, held in limbo until a future date when it could bloom again. You and me both, baby, John thought.

He stayed out until a chill settled underneath his warm winter coat, then he walked back at a clipped pace. Waiting for the elevator back at The Dakota, John encountered an invalid neighbour, her West Indian nurse slowly wheeling her across the marble floor of the lobby. 

“But I saw her with my own eyes, Jean. I saw her just floating there in that red dress. Crying so loud it hurt my ears!” 

That's rich, John thought, considering the old bat was deaf as a post. But he gave the pair a sidelong glance, struggling to find a way to casually join the conversation. She'd seen the weeping lady, that proved he hadn't imagined her.

“She can't hurt you, Ms. Elaine,” Jean reassured her, leaning in close to say it into the old lady's ear. “She's just crying for the things she lost in life. You just pay her no mind.”

“I can't sleep on the best of days,” Ms. Elaine lamented. “I can't sleep with her crying.” 

John was now staring openly at her wrinkled face, the deep-set, leathery lids of her blue marble eyes, her lipless mouth smeared with pink lipstick. He thought of Mimi back home in England. Mimi would say this was all a lot of codswallop.

“You're that young man with the Chinese wife,” the old woman said. “That your little boy? He saw her too.”

“Japanese,” John said automatically. “Did he? News to me.” His heart stopped in his breast. Was that why Sean had been so reluctant to shut off the lights during bedtime? Another story and another until poor Helen's voice was ragged.

“Now Ms. Elaine…you mustn't worry Mr. Lennon. She can't hurt no one. No point scaring that child.”

John found himself nodding, lulled by her melodious accent. “No point at all.”

He got off the elevator on the seventh floor. Ms. Elaine lived on the ninth floor. (Ninth floor.) As he stepped out into the hall something compelled him to turn around. The nurse was looking at him in a strange thoughtful manner.

“God bless,” she mouthed.

A shiver ran down John's spine.

Sean was at Maxie’s playing and John didn't want to upset him so instead he went to his bedroom and sat on the bed smoking cigarette after cigarette and staring at the silent telephone. When it finally rang it took a second for John to realise he hadn't imagined it.

“Yes?”

“Paul McCartney for you,” Fred said in a strange hushed voice. He was afraid Yoko would find out. 

John waited for the click that would announce the call had been switched over. He was going to sound so cool. 

“Fuck, thank God it's you,” John said instead.

“What the hell are you playing at, John?” Paul asked angrily.

For a moment John was too stunned to speak.

“You call...what was it? Four times? Five? Hang up like a schoolboy playing a prank, then you have your secretary demand I call you back. You upset Linda for no apparent reason except plain rudeness. But you haven't bothered to return my calls for months. Fucking months the only chance I have to communicate with you is through the lawyers or that woman.”

“By that woman I take it you mean my wife?” John spat.

“You know who I'm talking about,” Paul muttered.

“I wasn't aware you called.” 

“Must be urgent if you're calling me now.”

The urgency had left him as suddenly as it had come. Paul's voice, like balm to his poor aching soul, chased away the images of those spectres that loomed large in his mind's eye. He couldn't think of a thing to say now.

“I was glad to hear they released you,” John said weakly.

Paul let out a short gust of breath. “Yeah, well. That's Wings done with.”

“Ah well, The Beatles ended and you lived,” John said.

“Yeah,” Paul said, his voice lilting upwards like he was asking a question.

“Yes. You and your charmed life,” John said.

“Fuck you,” Paul said but the words came out soft like words of endearment rather than a vulgarity.

“I sent a card.”

“You sent one? Or JohnandYoko? Because I haven't had a letter from John in bloody ages,” Paul said in that voice he put on when he was peeved. That old put-upon queer's voice. 

“I sent it.” John pulled a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches out of his breast pocket and lit a fag, balancing the phone under his chin.

“What's wrong? You didn't call for this. I was released weeks and weeks ago. What's happened?” Paul's voice dropped low, his accent shifted infinitesimally and he spoke in that broad Liverpool accent of their youth that he'd largely set aside in the advent of their fame.

“It's…” John began. He felt so foolish all at once. A decade had passed since the affair ended. Paul's marriage, his marriage, more than a double handful of solo albums and five children between the two of them. They were no longer the lads they had been. Why was his first instinct still to run to Paul?

“What is it?” Paul asked gently.

It was the gentleness that surprised him, that soft voice, the tone of concern. He had forgotten that side of Paul, blocked it out. John felt a spasm of pain in his chest, his throat closing up all at once like he was going to cry.

“John?”

He twisted the telephone cord around his hand and then pulled it out of the wall with a sharp yank.

When Sean got home he sat with him while he had his tea and then gave him a bath. He sent Helen away and read to him from Just So Stories.

“Sean,” John said, slowly folding the slim book closed around one finger. “You know you can tell me if you're ever scared, you know?”

“I know,” Sean said, twisting the corner of his blanket around his finger.

“Have you seen a lady dressed in red? A crying lady?”

Sean paused, turned his little face up to regard his father as if gauging his mood, considering the best stance to take. He nodded slowly. 

“Where did you see her?” John asked.

“Me and Maxie were playing hide and seek,” Sean said haltingly. “I went up the stairs.”

They weren't supposed to be playing on the stairs. John would have to have a word with Helen in the morning. 

“I climbed and climbed cause I didn't want him to find me and the old wheelchair lady was there. She saw her too.”

Sean stuck his head under the blanket. John pulled up the edge of the blanket and peered under it. 

“The red lady?” John asked in a hushed tone.

Sean nodded. “She didn't have legs,” he whispered. His little hand wormed its way into John's. 

They stayed that way, under the blanket for a long while.

“Daddy? Is she bad?” Sean asked.

“No,” John said firmly, trying to make his voice stop shaking. “She's just sad. She can't hurt you. Did you see a man in grey? In our flat?”

Sean's eyes were so big they filled his tiny face, he shook his head. Maybe it hadn't been real. Maybe that part had been a bad dream. John stayed with Sean until he fell asleep, sang him all his favourite tunes. Halfway through “Yesterday” Sean's breathing slowed and his little hand dropped to his side. John left the nightlight burning and slipped into his own room.

He didn't sleep that night. He stayed up rereading Alice and smoking cigarette after cigarette. He'd have switched to weed if he'd had any in the house. He didn't remember falling asleep until he was jolted awake by the sudden depression of the mattress. Someone was sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. He knew at once it was the man in grey. John was frozen, prone upon the bed, a scream lodged in his throat. The figure, garbed in that collarless Cardin suit, leaned down and put a cold finger against John's cheek. He was staring straight at the man, straight into the space where its face should have been. He hadn't been able to see it last night because there was nothing there. Nothing where the eyes should be, no nose and no mouth.

John's whole body was ice cold, he was shivering uncontrollably like he was going through withdrawal. The figure leaned into John, the empty hole of its visage directly over John's. Paul, he thought as the blankness descended upon his, close enough to kiss. When they touched, everything went spiralling down into blackness.

He came to all at once, his clothes drenched in sweat, his hair lank and damp, plastered to his neck. Tumbling out of bed he crawled over to the outlet on the wall and shoved the little plastic jack back into it. He dialed the number frantically, his fingers tripping over the buttons.  
He prayed to all his gods Paul would answer.

“Paul,” he said as soon as he heard the line connect. “Paul.” He didn't even care if Linda answered. He was out of his head.

“It's me. It's me, it's Paul. What's going on with you? What's happened? Don't hang up on me again. John?” Paul sounded wide awake and overwrought. His voice was high and thin, broken in places. 

John gripped the receiver with both hands, his breath hissing out in great desperate gasps. “I can't…I'm…I saw…” 

“Hush, love. Breathe in. Go on. Breathe out. In…out. In…out. That's it...”

John followed his gentle instruction till he managed to get his breathing under control. He was still cold and he pulled the blanket around up around his shoulders, leaned his head against the headboard.

“You can tell me, John. Haven't we…haven't we been through the wringer together? What could you tell me that...well, that…Tell me,” Paul pleaded.

“I'm going crazy. It's finally happened,” John whispered at last.

“You're not crazy,” Paul said insistently.

But what did he know? They hadn't been close for a very very long time. They weren't even friends anymore. Not really. John had seen to that.

“I'm seeing things. I've been seeing…fuck, Paul.”

He remembered how Paul would touch him before a concert, during a press conference, just a casual touch, his wrist, his elbow. That would be enough. Enough to ground him, enough to remind him who he was. When had Paul stopped doing that? John would give everything he owned to feel that touch now.

“I've been seeing…I think I'm haunted...” John said under his breath. He didn't wait for Paul's reply, he pushed ahead blindly. “And I can't tell if it's just I've done me own head in…with all the drugs and the drink…the...the…the… isolation. Or…but others…Sean said he saw something too. I've been seeing…I think it's you. I really do. It's you in that grey Beatle suit. What if..?”

There was a pause so long John feared Paul had hung up on him. “Paul?” he whispered.

“I'm here, John.”

“I'm afraid it's a sign. It…it started when you were in Japan. A sign you're going to…”

Paul sucked in his breath sharply. “John, no one's going to…no one is going to die.”

John shuddered. He'd never even thought the words. Never admitted to himself what he'd been so afraid of. Paul laughed, an awkward sound, devoid of mirth. 

“Anyway, to hear them tell it I'm already dead, you know?”

How could he laugh when that was his very worst nightmare? One that had been a reality in his life over and over and over? Julia. Uncle George. Stuart. Brian. How often had he seen the pale, cold faces of the ones he loved? How often had he seen himself abandoned, uncared for, alone? He didn't need to listen to the song backwards to hear the message like a prophecy: Paul is dead, Paul is dead, Paul is dead. 

“I'm sorry,” Paul said quietly. “I'm an idiot. You don't have to worry. Nothing is going to happen. I'm right as rain.”

“You don't believe me, do you?”

“I believe you,” Paul said hurriedly. “I believe you. John…I need…I need to see you. I'm coming to New York.” 

There were so many layers to Paul's voice and John was too exhausted to analyse them. It was tender and pleading, forceful and frantic. A rollercoaster of emotions in those stuttered words. He didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know what to feel. 

“You don't have to do that,” John said slowly. 

He was gripping the receiver so tightly his knuckles hurt. He clenched his bottom lip between his teeth afraid that if he didn't take care the treacherous words would spill out of his mouth, he'd beg Paul to get on the next flight. He didn't know if that's what he really wanted. He didn't know what would happen if he were face to face with Paul. John had learned early on in his life sometimes love was a terrible thing. You needed to push it away with both hands before it swallowed you whole. 

“I want to. I want to see you. Don't you..? Didn't they give you my messages? I've been trying…” Paul sighed. “I want to,” he finished weakly. 

John shivered. What if this was why it all went wrong? What if he was luring Paul to his demise, a juicy worm on the cruel barbs of a fisherman's hook?

“Please don't,” John whispered but Paul didn't seem to hear him.

“I'll be there soon. Try to get some rest. I'm on my way. I'm coming. I'm coming for you, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> I owe much of the mood of this fic to Netflix The Haunting Of Hill House. I loved it and it was a huge inspiration. 
> 
> I researched The Dakota and just so you know, the weeping lady is a ghost John allegedly saw. I'll be adding a few more supposedly spotted spectres in the future.
> 
> The title was stolen from The Chilling Adventures Of Sabrina. I've basically been subsiding on a steady diet of horror shows and movies since I started writing this. I don't recommend The Lodgers btw. It sucked.
> 
> ♡ Special thanks to Twinka for the beta and Whereitwillgo.
> 
> Extra special thanks to Jane and Lisa for reading the Sean snippet. T would most certainly talk like that. She's a smarty pants.
> 
> Happy Halloween!


End file.
